“The man has no soul,” he said, as though he were pronouncing sentence of death. That Millicent should have fashioned this counterfeit of Mills, animated perhaps by an interest that might quicken to love, was intolerable. Passion possessed him. Lifting the bust, he flung it with a loud crash upon the tile floor. He stared dully at the scattered fragments. “God!” he turned toward her with the hunger of love in his eyes. “I--I--I’m sorry--I didn’t mean to do that!” He caught her hand roughly; gently released it, and ran up the steps into the library. Millicent remained quite still till the outer door had closed upon him. She looked down at the broken pieces of the bust, trying to relate them to the cause of his sudden wrath. Then she knelt and began mechanically, patiently, picking up the fragments. Suddenly she paused. Her hands relaxed and the bits of clay fell to the floor. She stood up, her figure tense, her head lifted, and a light came into her eyes. II He had made a fool of himself: this was Bruce’s reaction to the sudden fury that had caused him to destroy Millicent’s bust of Franklin Mills. He would never dare go near her again; and having thus fixed his own punishment, and being very unhappy about it, a spiteful fate ordained that he should meet her early the next morning in the lobby of the Central States Trust Company, where, out of friendly regard for Shepherd Mills, he had opened an account. “So--I’m not the only early riser!” she exclaimed, turning away from one of the teller’s windows as he passed. “This is pay day at home and I’m getting the cook’s money. I walked down--what a glorious morning!” “Cook--money?” he repeated stupidly. There was nothing extraordinary in the idea that she should be drawing the domestic payroll. Her unconcern, the deftness with which she snapped her purse upon a roll of new bills and dropped it into a bead bag were disconcerting. Her eyes turned toward the door and he must say something. She was enchanting in her gray fur coat and feathered hat of vivid blue; it hadn’t been necessary for her to say that she had walked four miles from her house to the bank; her glowing cheeks were an eloquent advertisement of that. “Please,” he began eagerly. “About last night--I made a dreadful exhibition of myself. I know--I mean that to beg your forgiveness----” “Is wholly unnecessary!” she finished smilingly. “The bust was a failure and I had meant to destroy it myself. So please forget it!” “But my bad manners!” She was making it too easy for his comfort. He wished to abase himself, to convince her of his contrition. “Well,” she said with a judicial air, “generally speaking, I approve of your manners. We all have our careless moments. I’ve been guilty myself of upsetting bric-a-brac that I got tired of seeing in the house.” “You ought to scold me--cut my acquaintance.” “Who’d be punished then?” she demanded, drawing the fur collar closer about her throat. “I might die!” he moaned plaintively.